


Bad Wolf

by wingedcatninja



Series: SPN Dean Bingo 2019 [15]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Case Fic, Dialog heavy, Gen, Gore, No pairing - Freeform, Recovery, SPN Dean Bingo 2019, SPN Fanfic Pond, Severe Injury, canon violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:15:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23529004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingedcatninja/pseuds/wingedcatninja
Summary: Everyone has a story of why they became a hunter. This is yours.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & You, Sam Winchester & You
Series: SPN Dean Bingo 2019 [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1387618
Kudos: 10





	Bad Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> For SPN Dean Bingo. Also written for @spnfanficpond SPN Fanfic Pond’s Unfic Challenge with prompt ‘a broken vacuum cleaner’. I apologize for nothing.
> 
> Square Filled: Case Fic

Bag of screws in one hand, you were pulling up the photo you needed on your phone when you heard the voices on the other side of the shelves. The actual words did not register immediately. When they did, you frowned at the shelf as if it would allow you to see through it.

“-have to capture it? I still vote we kill ‘em all and be done.” The voice sounded gruff and maybe a bit sulky, odd as that might be.

“Dean, you know why. There are only a few of Michael’s monsters left, and we need their location.” That one sounded exasperated as if he was tired of arguing his point.

It was easier to focus on the voices rather than what they were saying.

There was an acknowledging grunt, then the sound of wood rattling, slightly muffled by the shelves.

“Maybe we should just get a whole roll? Those things are freaky strong,” the first voice said. “At least we don’t have to worry about finding silver chains since they’re immune to that now,” it went on in a grumpy tone.

“Yeah, more is probably better,” the second voice agreed, sounding a bit distracted. “Hey, maybe we should call someone for backup? Last time we went up against four of them, we didn’t do so well.”

“They caught us by surprise that time. This time we’ll have the advantage. Don’t worry, Sammy, we’ll be fine. Just make sure your machete is nice and sharp.”

Blinking rapidly while your brain furiously attempted to process what you had heard, you moved to the end of the aisle as silently as you could. You wanted to run the other direction, out of the hardware store and back to your own house. Something made you stop and peek around the edge of the shelves though.

About twenty feet away stood the two men, seemingly still arguing over how much chain they should get. One of them had his back to you and was crouching down, apparently about to lift a whole roll off the bottom shelf. The other guy was facing your way and you quickly pulled back before he saw you. He had to be well over six feet tall. 

Frozen in place, your back against the end of the shelves, you debated with yourself in your mind. They had mentioned killing people ( _ monsters, they had said monsters, but let’s not unpack that just yet _ ). Should you alert the police? What if they were serial killers? They certainly looked dangerous enough, what little you had seen of them. You realized you would not be able to even give the police a proper description. Tall and handsome? Yeah, they would laugh at you. 

Daring a quick peek, you caught them just heading away from you, the shorter one carrying a whole roll of heavy-duty chain, judging by the way he was walking. Making a split-second decision, you hurried off toward the cash registers clutching the bag of screws. 

You got there just in time to see them take their place in line at one of the three open registers. You chose the register farthest from the two guys, feeling like you were outside your own body, watching events unfold. In a daze, and with a constant eye on the two potential serial killers, you paid for the screws and headed out of the store. 

Walking as slowly as you could, pretending to rummage through your purse, you got to your car at the same time they reached theirs. Your 1977 Chrysler Sunbeam felt like it cowered in the presence of the sleek black Impala. The sight of the pentagram painted inside their trunk was only more proof these were a couple of deranged serial killers. Probably Satanists too.

Sitting at the wheel, you quickly jotted down their license plate number and the make and model of the car. Feeling like you were doing something monumentally stupid, you turned your car to follow them. 

Remembering all the spy movies you had ever seen, you kept a careful distance between yourself and the increasingly menacing-looking Chevy; three or four cars between you at all times. They drove through town and you were starting to worry that they were going to pull onto the interstate when they turned into the parking lot of a motel. You slowed down and watched them park in front of a room, but without being able to stop there was no way to make out the room number. 

You had to go another mile down the road before you were able to turn around. The whole way you argued with yourself. You should go home and call the cops. You had enough information for them to find and arrest those two. On the other hand, they had been talking about monsters. What had the one guy said? ‘Michael’s monsters’? Maybe it was some biker club? And round and round your thoughts went.

By the time you were back by the motel, you impulsively turned in and parked in a far corner where you could see the car and the door that was most likely their motel room. Staring at the closed door ( _ number 112, you noticed now _ ), you chewed on your fingernails and fretted over what to do. Before you knew it, it was dark and the two guys were coming out of their room.

You thought you were still debating what to do when once again you felt as if you were outside your own body watching as your hand turned the key in the ignition and you steered your car to follow theirs.

It was still early in the evening and you were able to keep a few cars between you and them. At least until they turned off into one of the worse parts of town. Traffic dropped off to almost non-existent and you had to fall farther back just to stay off their radar. On impulse, just after they turned a corner, you turned your headlights off.

When they stopped, you did as well, tucking your car into a shadow where there were no streetlights working. You watched them grab something out of their trunk, then head into a dilapidated apartment building. 

Your mind was screaming at you to get the hell out of there. And yet, you found yourself sliding out of the car and tip-toeing up to the door where they had entered. Through a broken window a couple of floors up, you could barely make out the muffled sounds of a scuffle. Were they about to kill someone? If you left now, the cops would be too late. You berated yourself quietly for not calling the cops sooner. Even while you did that, your hand was already pulling the door open. 

The stairwell was dark, most of the light fixtures either fallen or ripped down. Using your phone as a flashlight, you hugged the wall climbing the stairs. Numerous nights coming home after curfew had taught you how to climb stairs with the least amount of creaking. The sounds of fighting were still muffled, but you could make out more of them the closer you got.

A cry of pain had you frozen in terror for several moments before you were able to move again. There was growling, which seemed totally out of place. The sound reminded you of the feral dogs you sometimes passed on the streets on the outskirts of town. Except, judging by the sound here, these must be gigantic dogs. There was crashing and the sound of splintering wood. Two more steps and you could see the open door to one of the apartments. It looked a lot like the entrance to a cave and you imagined something dark and dangerous lived in this one. Your primal instincts were screaming at you.

Your hands were shaking, but you had 9-1-1 already punched in, all you had to do was hit the dial button. And yet, you did not. Instead, against every instinct ingrained by horror movies, you moved into the darkened doorway. 

The entryway was small and the sounds of breaking and growling were loud in your ears. Louder even than the pounding of your heart. Something really big flashed across the opening at the other end, only six feet away from you and you flinched. A moment later, just as you took another step, that really big thing came around the corner.

Frozen in terror, you stared into the face of death. Predator teeth with large canines dripping blood and saliva. Yellow eyes that reflected the light from your phone; the phone you had raised in futile defense and that now only illuminated something from your worst nightmare. Claws flashed into the beam of light; up, then slashing down. 

There was no air. Why was there no air? A moment passed, then another, and nothing moved. You wanted to wake up now. It seemed like the pain in your chest should wake you up. It burned, from your left shoulder, down across your chest, to your right hip. A shadow moved behind the monster and suddenly everything seemed to happen at once in slow-motion. 

There was a sickening sound of ripping flesh. Something wet and warm sprayed across your face. The really big thing with the teeth and eyes and claws crumpled to the floor, the head coming to a stop at your feet. You heard someone curse and it sounded far away. Your knees decided that now was a good time to stop working.

More pain. The air was filled with the metallic scent of copper, but a nauseating version that made you want to throw up everything you had ever eaten. Someone was shouting. The world became darkness interspersed with a confusing jumble of images.

“-the hell is she doing here?”

“-wolf? Test-”

“-fabitch. Wha-”

Excruciating pain. Nope. You decided it was time to pass out. 

* * *

You were awake. You knew you were awake because you were in pain. Your entire torso felt as if someone had used it as a punching bag, then set it on fire. It was ok though because it distracted you from the fact that your mouth felt like that same someone had poured a whole desert in there. A desert of dirty, bloody gym socks. There was a sound like a dying animal, followed by a rustle of fabric. You realized your eyes were still closed. You decided to open them.

You were in a room. That was obvious by the walls and ceiling you could see from where you were lying on your back. Most of your field of vision was filled with a face though. You blinked to clear the blurriness from your eyes. The lips in the face were moving. Making a conscious effort, you listened as hard as you could.

“-ok? Hey, can you hear me?” The voice managed to sound both gruff and concerned at the same time.

What you meant to say was ‘yes, I can hear you’. What came out was another sound like a dying animal. You realized that the first time must have been you as well. Luckily, the face interpreted the sound correctly and nodded, then disappeared.

You tried to move your arm and decided immediately that it was a bad idea. The pain almost blinded you and you blinked to clear the tears from your eyes. It occurred to you that you should be in a hospital. A moment of listening revealed none of the sounds you associated with being in this much pain in a hospital though. There were none of the usual hospital smells either. It smelled like wood and fire and trees.

The face returned, this time accompanied by another one that was vaguely familiar. You thought hard for a minute before it came to you. He was one of the two serial killers. You should be scared, but you were in too much pain. You decided to pass out again.

* * *

The next time you woke up, it was the second guy who was there. He held a glass of deliciously cool water to your lips and you managed to swallow a small mouthful. 

“I’m sorry, I can’t give you more. The doc put in an IV though, so you’re ok,” he told you when you complained about being denied.

“Can you talk?” His furrowed brow and concerned look made you give it a serious try. All that came out was a hoarse croak. A large hand patted your right shoulder gently.

“It’s ok. We’ll have time to talk later. Just rest and heal.” That sounded like a great idea, and you passed out again.

* * *

An annoyingly persistent beam of sunlight poked you in the eye until you managed to turn your head a fraction. There was a strange sound in the room, like a very large cat purring, or an idling engine. After a minute, you realized it was the sound of snoring. Moving still hurt like a motherfucker, but you did your best to at least turn your head. A wall, and a door that led to a bathroom judging by the tiles. Breathing as deeply as you could with your torn chest, you turned the other way. 

A bed, and someone sleeping. All you could see was the back of a head of short sandy hair beneath a ratty blanket. 

“Hello?” Was what you meant to say. It sounded more like a croak. It worked though. There was the face you recognized again. He looked tired, with that just-woke-up look. In the daylight, you could see his eyes were a kaleidoscope of colors. Longish brown hair framed a square face with a cute pointy nose. He was smiling. 

“Hey there,” he said softly. “You look a little more awake today.”

He held the glass of water to your lips and you took a grateful mouthful, rolling it around in your mouth before swallowing.

“Where?” It was all you could manage, but he seemed to understand.

“Whitefish, Montana. We’re out in the middle of nowhere basically. We couldn’t take you to a hospital and you would’ve bled out if we had gone farther.” He must have seen the budding panic in your eyes because he hurried to reassure you. “No, no, no, don’t worry. We’re the good guys. A friend of ours fixed you up and set us up with enough IV bags to hold you over until you’re feeling better. She’ll be by in a few days to check on you unless we’ve managed to get you healed up before then.”

You thought that was an odd thing to say, but felt a bit reassured knowing someone else knew where you were. 

“What-?” A horrifying image flashed in your mind, of teeth and claws and yellow eyes.

“It-it’s kind of a-a long story,” he said, sounding hesitant. “It’ll be easier to talk about once we know how much you remember.”

You managed to nod and he held the glass up for you again to take another drink. The cool water tasted amazing.

“Who?” You croaked out.

“Oh, right, yeah, I guess-yeah,” he chuckled ruefully. “I’m Sam, and the sawmill over there in the other bed is my brother, Dean. We found your wallet so we know your name already.”

You nodded again. As brief as the interaction had been, you felt ready to go back to sleep. Sam must have noticed because he gently patted your shoulder.

“Rest. We'll talk more when you’re feeling better.”

You thought you nodded, but you were already drifting off.

* * *

The next time you woke up the room was filled with the soft light of oil lamps. There was a low murmur of voices coming from the other side of it.

“Sam?” It came out as a hoarse whisper, but it was apparently loud enough.

Two faces came into your field of vision.

“Hey there, sleepyhead. We were just talking about making a supply run. Anything you’re in the mood for? Pizza? Chinese?” Sam joked, smiling.

Just the thought of laughing made the pain flare in a diagonal line across your torso. You grimaced and gave a minute shake of your head. Dean punched his brother in the shoulder.

“Don’t be an ass, Sammy,” he rumbled, and you recognized the second voice from the hardware store. Looking down at you, he frowned. “I’ll get some broth for you. Doc said to start off with clear liquids until she gets back here.”

You nodded and made a soft sound of appreciation. Now that you could see him for the first time, you were overwhelmed by how ridiculously pretty Dean was. You had never seen eyes so green. And those lips, holy macaroni. Was it inappropriate to be attracted to a potential serial killer? These guys had clearly lucked out in the genetic lottery.

Both of them moved away to where you could no longer see them.

“Alright, I’ll be back asap,” Dean said in his deep voice that felt like it reverberated through your whole body.

“Yeah. Don’t forget the alcohol wipes. And the-the non-woven compresses. Doc specifically said non-woven,” Sam reminded.

“Yeah, yeah,” you heard Dean reply. It sounded as if he was already out the door. There was a breath of cool night air against your face and then you heard the rumble of the engine outside.

Sam came back and sat down next to you. He helped you drink a little water, then busied himself with checking your bandages.

“It looks good. I-I mean-uh-it looks like it’s healing well,” he said, blushing a little. 

You realized you were wearing exactly nothing aside from the bandages and felt your own face heat.

“Where...are...clothes?” You croaked out, hoping you did not look too mortified.

“Ah, yeah, the doc had to cut them off you. Sorry. We-we uh, had to throw them away. Burn them actually,” Sam explained, very focused on arranging the items on the nightstand just so.

You made a sound to acknowledge what he had said, not knowing how you felt about it. Had the guys been helping the doctor? Should you just crawl into a hole in the ground and disappear forever? On the other hand, you were alive, so maybe a little nudity was something you could get over.

“‘Sokay,” you told him, attempting to smile. The attempt caused you to grunt in pain.

“Shit. You smacked your face pretty hard when you fell on the floor. Here, let me-,” he said and grabbed something off the nightstand. 

With a surprisingly gentle touch, he spread some sort of ointment over your cheekbone and on the bridge of your nose. It stung a little and smelled like ass, but it helped. 

“You’re lucky,” Sam said while his fingers worked. “This’ll all heal eventually. It would’ve been so much worse if he’d bit you.”

“Why?” You managed without moving your lips.

Sam seemed to realize he had said too much and turned away.

“We’ll talk about it when you feel stronger,” he told you. “You ok for now? I should get dinner started for Dean and me so we can eat when he gets back.”

You frowned at the way he had brushed off your question but nodded. You meant to stay awake, but within moments after he had walked off, you slipped back into sleep.

You woke again later to the sound of the brothers talking and stayed still hoping to hear something that might shed some light on what had happened.

“They didn’t have any lettuce, I swear,” you heard Dean say defensively.

“Yeah, I’m sure they didn’t,” Sam shot back with enough sarcasm to fuel a small city. “Whatever, dude. Next time, I’m going.”

“Fine with me,” Dean replied.

It was quiet for a while, aside from the sounds of the guys eating. 

“I think I’ll move the TV,” Sam said after a minute. “Now that she’s awake longer, it’ll get boring for her to just stare at the walls and ceiling.”

Dean grunted acknowledgment but said nothing more.

“What’re we gonna tell her, Dean?” You heard Sam, punctuated by the sound of him setting his dish down on the table.

“What do you mean?” Dean asked while chewing.

“You know what I mean. She’s asking about what happened. We have to tell her,” Sam went on.

There was a rustle of fabric, and then the sound of another dish being set down on the table. 

“Maybe she doesn’t remember?” Dean finally said.

“Yeah...maybe. But what if she does?” Sam retorted.

“Then we tell her the truth,” Dean replied.

Sam sighed deeply and you could hear him getting up, the clatter of dishes and utensils. 

“I guess,” he said, after a while. “I just hate that she has to know.”

“Look,” Dean started, “no one forced her to be there. According to her driver’s license, she lives clear across town. You know as well as I do that there had to be something shady going on.”

“I don’t know, Dean. From what I could find out on the internet, there’s nothing weird about her. She’s just a regular person with a regular life,” Sam said.

“Yeah, well, I guess we’ll find out once she’s well enough to tell us,” Dean replied.

“I guess,” you heard Sam say.

Any further conversation was drowned out by the sounds of dishes being washed, and you drifted off to sleep again.

When you woke up, it was apparently morning, and a TV was set up on a stool in your line of sight. 

* * *

The Winchesters cared for you for the full three months it took you to heal completely. The doctor came by once a week at first, then twice in a month, before she declared you well enough. The first time you were able to take a shower, you were shocked at the sight of your body. 

Three more or less parallel scars ran from your left shoulder, between your breasts, across your abdomen and ended at your right hip. The doc had just removed the stitches and the scars were an angry red that she assured you would fade with time. That was poor comfort when you saw them in the mirror, and you broke down crying. Sam rushed into the bathroom, wrapped you in a towel and held you until you had no more tears left. Then he told you how strong you were to have survived, and assured you the scars were your badge of strength. If you could survive that, you could survive anything. 

When you were able to get up and walk around more, Dean went out and got you some new clothes so you could stop wearing his all the time. Sam took you for walks; at first, all you could manage was getting to the porch. You would sit there for a while, then walk back inside to watch telenovelas with Dean. 

Eventually, the walks got longer; around the cabin, then down a few trails. You still watched TV, but one day, Dean pulled out his pistol and started showing you how to use it. By the time you were able to walk for a full hour without getting winded, you were also able to take apart and reassemble the Glock that Sam had given you in under a minute.

The walks became runs. Shooting practice replaced TV time. At the end of the three months, you felt better than you had ever felt before. And you knew things; things that most people had no idea about. 

“Alright, I think it’s time,” you announced one morning after you and Sam had returned from your run.

“Time for what?” Dean looked up from his bacon and toast.

“Time for me to go home, and let you guys get back to doing what you do,” you said.

Dean and Sam exchanged a look. You had learned weeks ago how much meaning they were able to pack into a single look, and you waited for them to speak.

“Yeah, uhm, about that,” Dean started, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“We were talking,” Sam picked up, “and, well, if you want-”

“You could come home with us,” Dean finished.

You cocked your head and gestured around the cabin.

“You mean this isn’t your home?” You asked, not quite managing to keep the sarcasm out of your voice.

“You know it isn’t, Y/N,” Sam replied, giving you one of his many bitchfaces.

“Ok, ok,” you said, holding your hands up in surrender. “That’s kinda vague though, guys. ‘Come home with you’, sure, ok, then what? What would I do?”

Dean started to say something but shut his mouth when Sam glared at him. You could see the mischief in those green eyes of his.

“You’ve been training really hard, Y/N, and with a bit more coaching, you could do what we do,” Sam said, shrugging a little.

“Me? Hunt monsters?” You laughed until you saw the expressions on their faces. “Oh. You’re serious?”

“I mean, only if you want. Or, we could drop you back at your house and you could go back to your life and pretend nothing happened,” Dean said with a shrug.

You sat down on the nearest bed, looking from one brother to the other and seeing that they were indeed serious. 

“Right. Well. I can’t pretend it hasn’t crossed my mind,” you told them. “It’s not like my life was all unicorns and rainbows before. And knowing what I know now, I don’t think I could go back to my old life.”

You looked up at the brothers watching you. You thought about the time you had spent with them. You made your decision.

“When do we leave?”

Both of them had great big grins and Dean smacked his hand down on the table while Sam took one long step across the room to give you a big bearhug.

“Excellent,” Dean said. “Let’s pack up and get going.”

While you packed and listened to the brothers bicker, you thought to yourself that never in your life would you have imagined a broken vacuum cleaner would lead to a whole new life.


End file.
